Caring is Useless
by delicate-matters
Summary: Sherlock's facial features hardened at the word care: "Caring was never part of the question".


Blood was the cause of John's anger. Blood was the cause of the heavy adrenaline pumping through his body. Blood was the reason John tackled the culprit to the ground knocking him out instantly. It wasn't just any blood, it was Sherlock's.

The blood was the result of their carelessness; they had walked into a trap all because of the tension between them. They refused to work together because of petty pride. And now Sherlock was going to die because of a stupid, _**stupid**_ argument they had had earlier that day.

* * *

><p>"<em>Sherlock, I'm thinking of going away with Sarah for, I don't know a couple of weeks or so..."<em>

_This sentence only merited him one word from the tensed Sherlock Holmes, casually lying on the sofa: "Why?"_

_Yet it was that one word that began the avalanche that was John Watson. He had had it up to the brim with the infamously arrogant Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock was constantly questioning his relationship with Sarah, in fact with anyone! Whether it was text he received from Mycroft or a cup of tea from Ms. Hudson Sherlock always managed to come up with an infuriatingly snide comment._

"_Why? Sherlock primarily I believe that it is __**none **__of your bloody business, and secondly why do you care"_

_Sherlock's facial features hardened at the word care: "Caring was never part of the question"_

_John threw his hands up in the air: "Caring is never part of the question with you. I wonder, oh master of deduction have you ever felt any kind of loving emotion towards anything in your life or are you just a cold hearted, sociopathic bastard."_

"_Caring does not help this sad world we live in." Sherlock stood up and began to advance on John. "In fact all of the __**heroes**__ of those books you read so much died because of this useless emotion. Romeo and Juliet, DEAD. Anthony and Cleopatra, DEAD. Lancelot and Guinevere, DEAD. Love, Lust, and Friendship it all means __**nothing!**__"_

_Sherlock had screamed the last word in John face, however the minuet the words left his mouth realisation dawned upon his face. His eyes became wide. At Sherlock's scream John backed away, for the first time since he arrive at 211B Baker Street he felt empty._

"_So I mean nothing to you. All these months and I, no, __**we**__ mean nothing. Tell me Sherlock, am I useless? Do you let me stay with you because my slower wit is amusing?"_

_Sherlock tone became softer: "John I-"_

"_You what Sherlock? Didn't mean for me to be HURT? Or is hurt another feeling you condemn useless. I'll tell you what your problem is you don't understand feelings or emotions. Has anyone ever cared about you? Are you jealous Sherlock that I can feel this emotion and you can't?" _

"_I don't care about anything or anyone and if that is too __**difficult**__ for your lesser intellect to process maybe I made a mistake in that lab when we first met."_

"_What mistake would that be?" They were glaring into each other's eyes, voices strained and barely above whispers. The air was tense and as they stood face to face Sherlock leaned slightly loser and whispered:_

"_Inviting you into my life."_

_John simply looked into his eyes and said: "Yes, maybe you did."_

_Then it was over Sherlock bounded for the door and left john standing in the middle of the room. His left hand twitching, which it hadn't dome for months. On that moment he knew, that he was losing Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

><p>Blood, the deep red colour and its soft, dangerous texture dripping onto the floor brought him back to reality. Sherlock had fallen to his knees, with a soft 'thud' that sent John into a fully fledged offensive attack. Only one thought lingered on John aggressive mind: "<em>Save Sherlock<em>".

He ran full speed into the man holding the blood stained weapon. He drove them back until they smashed into a wall. The loud 'crunch' gave him indication that he had broken a couple of the man's ribs, he began to grin. The adrenaline had reached his brain and his instinct was to kill, kill the man that had hurt possibly the person he cared most for, kill the criminal that was a threat, and kill the culprit that had spilt Sherlock's blood. John, being a war doctor, knew how to kill, however John, being a consulting detectives doctor, knew that killing was irrational and bound to lead to more trouble. The fight between moral and instinct grew, he compromised by punching the man full in the face breaking his jaw, possible fracturing his cranium and rendering him unconscious.

John's mind suddenly emptied and everything became clear. He took in the scene around him. The unconscious, badly wounded man and the pained detective covered in blood.

"Sherlock" The name came off his lips in barely a whisper but the detectives head snapped up and his piercingly pained blue eyes met Johns. He suddenly became aware of the actual situation, if he did not act Sherlock was going to die.

John's fingers were fast he texted as simple message to Lestrade concerning the whereabouts of the unconscious criminal. He then grabbed Sherlock arm and yanked him to his feet, hung one arm over his shoulder and with determination walked him home.

How John managed to get him into their apartment and lay him on the couch will forever be a mystery. Sherlock was draped across the sofa, body hanging limply and blood dripping of his finger tips onto the floor. The sight made John want to scream, he didn't want to see Sherlock like this; the man that could live without food and sleep for weeks, the man that could map out the entire of London mentally, the man that played the game, for the games sake.

John grabbed a damp towel and began to look for the wound, mopping blood as he went. A grunt escaped Sherlock's slightly parted lips sending John into panic mode. He ripped off Sherlock's coat and threw it across the room. Then deeming the shirt useless he ripped that off too uncovering what would be a pasty white chest, however it was covered in thick red substance. That's when John saw the gash, It ran from the base of the right side of Sherlock's diagonally stopping right in front of his heart. The wound was raw, the flesh bright red and blistering. Blood leaked from the wound covering John's hands. John knew what he had to do.

John pressed the damp cloth across the open flesh and pressed down hard, he had to stop the bleeding. At the pressure Sherlock's eyes popped open in utter pain and looked right into Johns.

"John" Sherlock's voice was strained and hoarse. He was biting back the urge to scream in pain. The mere sight of his pained eyes brought tears to Johns.

"Shhh, don't speak everything will be all right." His voice trembled. Would it be all right? John should have taken him to the hospital, but Sherlock hates it there and won't let anyone touch him let alone try to help him. If he was going to lose Sherlock, he was going to lose him whilst trying to save his life, not whilst watching others attempt.

"No john-" Sherlock's breathe hitched; it was becoming more painful to breathe. "I was wrong, I made no mistake."

The held each other's gazes, reading one another's mind. Apologies flew across each other's thoughts.

"So was I, I didn't mean any of it. I care about you Sherlock, ever since the day I met you my life has become interesting. Just thought of losing you is are enough to send me back to my tremor and limp." John was choking back tears; the wound had stopped bleeding enough for him to register some medication. He reached into his emergency kit and pulled out a high dosage of morphine, enough to knock Sherlock out.

"John I do know how to care because-"John drove the needle into him and pressed down the syringe. He glanced back up to Sherlock's face on the word care, to find him smiling slightly and staring right at him almost softly, "Because I care about you."

Sherlock's world went blank.

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke to see the ceiling of his living room. Was he dead? He felt warmth on his right hand. He tried to sit up; it took him several attempts and lots of pain before he gave up trying to sit and simply peered down his body instead. Looking past his neatly stitched up chest and blood covered stomach he found a certain doctor's hand on top of his, clutching to it tightly. Yes, he had made no mistake inviting John into his life; in fact it was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him.<p>

Sherlock closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep holding onto John's hand in return, holding onto life.


End file.
